Head Over Feet
by skybound2
Summary: Solas watches - as if from outside himself - as she tumbles into love; and he follows, head over feet after her.


**Title: **Head Over Feet  
**Author:** skybound2  
**Rating:** T  
**Characters**: F!Lavellan/Solas  
**Word Count**: ~880  
**Spoilers: **Subtle spoilers for the Solas romance/game ending.  
**Summary: **Solas watches - as if from outside himself - as she tumbles into love, and he follows, head over feet after her.  
**Author Notes: **Spent some time tonight working on some writing exercise for myself, trying to get into these character's headspaces. This short character introspective F!Lavellan/Solas piece is one of the results. One of these days I will write a story with plot again. Today is not that day. Enjoy!

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**Head Over Feet**

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Lavellan is brash; with little care for diplomacy, or finesse. Her personality a perfect echo of her hands - rough and calloused from long hours hefting the pommel of her maul; but able to take down a trio of enemies in a deadly whirlwind that would put the court dancers of Arlathan to shame with its elegance.

Where subtlety is preferred, she charges head first. Where charm would best serve, she offers blunt honesty. Where refinement is expected, she offers up a wicked smile and leaves her boots behind.

Which is why Solas is so taken aback by the way that her voice dips down into a softer, more hesitant register when they are alone; the way that her eyes widen, and her lips curl at the edges as she seeks out the knowledge that he has to offer. Following one question with another, and another, _and another. _Delving always deeper into his history, or what he _presents _as his history. Appearing for all the world - enraptured by his tales.

Only, the world has been narrowed down to him, and him alone.

And as much as Solas would like to, he can not deny that he enjoys being the focus of her attentions. Her ever growing affections. Even as he knows that it can only end in heartache.

But yet, for all her brashness, her little patience for The Game, she is also unfailingly _kind_. Kneeling before a grieving man, and pledging to take flowers to his wife's grave. Seeking out the last words of fallen soldiers so that their families may be comforted. Gathering flowers with Cole, and showing him how to braid them into a crown when he wishes he could keep them close for longer.

It is curiosity that peeks his interest, her capability that draws him in, but it is these unexpected actions that are his undoing. And so he watches - as if from outside himself - as she tumbles into love; and he follows, head over feet after her.

Until it is second nature for him to seek her out first after a battle, only to find her eyes already locked on his form, seeking her own reassurance. Until their spirits are so in sync, that she falls in line ahead of him to deflect a blow just as his barrier weakens, and allowing him enough time to cast another over them both.

Until he revels in the soft little touches that she gives him when she is passing through the rotunda. Skirting her hand across his shoulders - the light scrap of a nail over the shell of his ear - never pausing in her course from rampart to the upper level of the library. Just a subtle acknowledgment that she is there, that she _cares_.

Until he finds himself waiting for her to finish her rounds at night; a cup of the tea she loves so much, steeped and waiting on his desk for her to take before she joins him on the lounge. Where she curls up next to him while he reads, not asking for his attention, or demanding conversation. Just tucking her body into his side, warmth and contentment seeping from her in a breathy sigh; one hand playing with the frayed edges of his tunic, while the other crosses over his abdomen, loose and relaxed. Eyes closed, though he knows she is not asleep. His head coming to rest on the top of her hers, without thought or care; as he presses a lingering kiss to her temple.

_Basking_ he would call it, if he were to mention it at all.

Not that he would.

Solas knows that this can not last. That what Lavellan and he share...that it will end. That it _must_ if he is to see his plans fulfilled. That it matters not what she deserves (for she deserves so much _more _that what he can give), nor what he wants.

But oh, how he _wants_.

How he wants to live a _life _with her. How he wants to lay beside her every night, and wake beside her every morning. And find cause to be near her every day.

How he wishes to bear the whole of his being to her; offer himself up as a supplicant. Allow her to pass judgment, and pay whatever penance she demands for his sins.

For her spirit. Her mind. _Everything_. It's intoxicating. _She _is intoxicating_. _And he knows, that were he to allow himself, he could drink of her for eternity, and never be sated. He would always want, always _crave_, more of her. He could sup of her until she was withered, and worn - unable to sustain his appetite - and still it would not be enough.

Which is why he can't allow it to continue. For all his crimes, he will not allow himself to be what breaks her. And so this must _end. Now. _Before he no longer has the strength to leave her behind.

Echoing steps announce her entrance into the rotunda, a tender smile upon her face that he is helpless but to return. His work, and his worries, all but forgotten.

Perhaps...perhaps it could wait until tomorrow.

After all, what harm could there be in allowing them both one more day?

~End


End file.
